Unsent letters
by amythis
Summary: Set after Tony and Angela's very first kiss.
1. Summer of '63

Sept. 2, 1963

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Dear Ingrid,

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I don't know why I'm writing to you when I don't know your address, or even your last name. But I've got some confessions to make, and just generally telling Father Marconi that I've lied to a girl hasn't been enough for my conscience. So even though you'll never see this, here goes.

Today is Labor Day, so school starts tomorrow, at least here in Brooklyn it does. I don't know about in Connecticut. Or maybe you go to some boarding school in another state. Anyway, I'm going into the sixth grade. No, I didn't get left back. (Well, I did but it was after skipping a grade, so it came out even.) The thing is, I'm not 13. I'm not even 12. I'm 11.

I know, I told you I was your age. I thought you wouldn't go out with me, even if it was just meeting up at Make-Out Rock, if you knew how much older you were than me. I guess if I were sending you this letter, this might be the point when you rip it up into tiny pieces. But I hope that you would take it as a compliment, that I wanted to get together with you so bad that I pretended to be something I'm not.

The other thing is, well, this isn't exactly a lie, but I did it on a bet. Now you probably want to rip me into tiny pieces. But let me explain. See, the guys were talking about whether we'd ever kissed girls. And nobody had. So then I said I thought I could kiss a girl by the end of the summer. Well, my camp was all-guys (Y Camp, remember), and the girls at your camp were obviously the closest girls in the vicinity. And I remembered seeing you the time me and my buddies swam over and ran your underwear up the flagpole. (I mean, not necessarily your underwear, but underwear from your cabin.) You were tall and blonde and there was something about you. I said I thought I could get you to kiss me, even though I had no idea if I could. I just wanted to try.

So then it turned into a bet with money. And the guys said they'd each give me a dime for every second we kissed. They wouldn't take my word for it, so Bruce Weinberger borrowed the stopwatch from the coach's cabin. Then we borrowed a rowboat and headed over to your camp.

I remembered which cabin you were standing in the doorway of when we ran off after saluting the skivvies. So I slid the note under the door. I don't remember exactly what I wrote, but if you saved it you know it said something like "Dear Tall Blonde, Please meet me at the Rock. I'm the Italian with the big smile." Because I had smiled at you, while the other guys were either laughing or panicking.

Then me and Bruce headed for the Rock. I told him to hide in the bushes so you wouldn't see him. I wasn't sure if you'd actually show up. I mean, we were strangers (well, we still are) and this was Camp Stuck-Up. (Sorry, but that's what we called it.) Still, you seemed more approachable than the other girls. And maybe you'd think I was cute, or maybe you'd at least like to kiss.

One of my moccasins got stuck in the mud, so I had to stop and clean it off with a stick and then put it back on. Bruce went on ahead of me and I wasn't even sure if he was really there till he came out of the bushes, after you left. You showed up in the clearing the same moment I did. The moon was shining on your braces.

We moved closer and we looked into each other's eyes. And then we put our arms around each other and we kissed. And it was great! I mean, you know that, you were there. But maybe you don't know how much I liked it. I couldn't tell you because I didn't want you to know how new I was at kissing. You were so good! I mean, if there was a kissing decathlon, you'd have won all ten events. They say you'll never forget your first kiss, and I know that'll be true for me because of you.

Did you like it? You seemed to. You made happy little sighs and you smiled at me after. I cut my lip on your braces, but I smiled back anyway. I could hardly feel the pain. I wanted to kiss you some more, or even just hold you, because you felt soft and you smelled terrific. If you were going to write back to me, I'd ask what perfume you were wearing. I would've asked that night, but I could hardly talk. I was trying to act cool, but my palms were sweaty.

But I remembered Bruce was in the bushes, watching. So I said, "Uh, this was nice, but I have to get back to my cabin before they do bed check."

You nodded. "Me, too. Goodnight—?"

"Anthony. Goodnight—?"

"Um, Ingrid."  
"Sweet dreams, Ingrid."

You blushed, like I'd said something about you being in bed, or about you dreaming of me, but I didn't mean nothing. And then you waved goodbye and headed out of the clearing. As soon as your footsteps faded away, Bruce popped out of the bushes and said, "Fifty-seven seconds, Micelli! Way to go!"

I wanted to just stand in the moonlight, thinking about you, but instead I remembered this was just for a bet. And probably I was just one of a bunch of guys you've kissed and it didn't mean anything to you. (Not that you're a floozy. I mean, you seem like a nice girl, even if you do meet strange guys at Make-Out Rock. But you are two years older than I am, so I'm not your first kiss, right?) So me and Bruce headed back to our bunk and I got $5.70 from each of the guys.

What did you tell the girls at your bunk? Did you say it wasn't bad for an Italian guy from Brooklyn? That I wasn't classy but I know how to work my mouth?

The thing is, there's part of me that thinks maybe, you being a girl, it was a romantic moment in your life, even if it wasn't your first. And that part feels guilty. So that's why I wrote this letter.

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Regards,

Anthony

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P.S. I went back to the Rock the next night. I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't even send you a note that time. I guess I thought you'd sychically sense I was there or something. You didn't show up of course. But while I was waiting, I ended up carving our names into the rock with my knife. (It's so funny, they take us off the streets to keep us out of trouble for the summer, and then they give us knives and rope?) I wonder if you'll ever see the carving. You'll know it's you because you've got an unusual name. (There's one girl, Marilu, who's got her name all over the rock, and that's an even more unusual name, so she must've been a busy little bee.) And, unless you've been kissing lots of guys, including ones named Anthony, you'll know who carved it.

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Sept. 22, 1963

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Dear Anthony,

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This is the last day of summer, the summer of my first grown-up kiss. I don't know if you could tell. You kissed very well, so I'm not sure if you had ever kissed anyone before. But I think you must've been at least a little nervous, since your palms were sweaty. (It was very hot that night though.) I was nervous, too, but it was lovely, magical, everything I imagined and more.

Was it special to you? I guess I'll never know. All I know about you is your first name and I think you come from New York judging from your accent, and you're Italian, which doesn't really narrow things down, even at that Y Camp. I thought of giving you my address or phone number but I felt daring meeting you at Kissing Rock. Maybe we were just meant to be strangers in the night.

And maybe I hoped you'd slip another note under the cabin door and we'd meet again that summer, maybe talk more this time. But I didn't hear from you again. I don't know if it was just a moonlit kiss to you. Or maybe you got in trouble for being out so late, especially if they found out you came across the lake. I made it back without getting caught, although the girls in my cabin had to hear all about it. Yes, I kissed and told. But I didn't talk about your technique, just how it felt emotionally.

I have something else to confess. Well, two things. One is that when you addressed the note to "Tall Blonde," you couldn't have known I'm not. Yes, I'm tall, but I'm not really blonde. A few days earlier, the girls convinced me to try peroxiding my hair. I'm really brunette. I wish I were like my mother, curvy and red-haired, but that's not going to happen. Well, maybe the curves someday. I liked being blonde, but I just did it for the summer. As an experiment.

It's strange being away from home. You get to try on different experiences, even different identities. And that's why I became "Ingrid." My real name is Angela, Angela Katherine Robinson. Very WASPy and dull. I'd seen _Casablanca_ three times in the week before I left for camp, since they kept showing it late at night on TV. Ingrid Bergman has such an exciting, glamorous, exotic name. So I borrowed it.

You see, and maybe this isn't fair to you, but you did ask me to go to Kissing Rock with you out of the blue like that. We hadn't even met! Yes, our eyes had met (I was so relieved when you were the boy I thought you were, the short one with the hair like Frankie Avalon and, yes, the big smile), but we didn't even introduce ourselves until after we kissed. I guess it seems hypocritical, but I didn't want you to kiss and tell. And so that's why I lied about my name.

If you're at the Y Camp again next summer, I'll confess to you. If you forgive me, maybe we can kiss again. I'll probably go to my camp again because I had fun (not just that night) and Mother jokes that it was the best summer of her life, having me out of the house. (I know she loves me but sometimes she acts like she's a stand-up comic, like Phyllis Diller or Joan Rivers, except that she makes fun of her daughter instead of her husband or herself.)

I feel better for having written this, even if we never meet again. Our first kiss will always be a fond memory, and it gives me something happy to think about at school. (Isn't eighth grade awful? I thought seventh was bad! Hopefully, high school will be better.)

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Sincerely,

Angela AKA Ingrid

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P.S. Some nights when I hear the crickets, I close my eyes and pretend it's that night again.


	2. Fall of '63

Nov. 22, 1963

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Dear Ingrid,

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I don't know why I'm writing to you. It's not like I don't have my friends, my father, my grandfather, and Father Marconi to talk to. Why am I writing to a stranger, another unsent letter? Maybe it's because it's both like talking to myself and like I'm writing to someone who I can say anything to.

He's dead. The President is dead. This is so unreal. They don't kill Presidents anymore, not like last century. (I know Sister Mary Margaret, my History teacher, will just turn this into another lesson.) And he was so young, so alive. I liked Ike, the only other President I remember, but I was just a little kid then, and he seemed old, like a grandfather. Kennedy was like a cool uncle. And, OK, maybe I looked up to him a little more because he was Catholic. (Grandpa says Irish Catholic is the next best thing to Italian Catholic. Not that he hates WASPs or nothing, but you can guess I haven't told him about kissing a blonde from New England with a name like Ingrid.)

I think part of what I'm feeling tonight is memories of when my mom died. I was just seven. Grandpa came over from Italy to help take care of me. Pop drives a garbage truck, so he couldn't stay home with me. At first, I thought Grandpa was just this weird old guy, but I really love him now. I wouldn't admit that to my friends, like Philly Fingers (don't ask), because they'd say, "Awww, Tony, loves his nonno!" Like I'm a little kid. But I can tell you. Even if you read this, you wouldn't make fun of me, I bet.

I'm crying right now. I can't tell anyone that, even Grandpa. I know, even adults are crying today, but I don't want people to think I'm weak, or a little kid.

I'm going to pretend you're here, holding my hand. Maybe you're crying, too, but that makes me feel better.

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Thank you,

Anthony

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Nov. 29, 1963

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Dear Anthony,

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It's strange but I keep thinking of you. Not like before, where I'd relive our kiss. No, now I'm thinking of you because the President is dead and he was Catholic, like you. I know, maybe you didn't identify with him because he was rich and Irish, not poor and Italian. Still, I think his election was a wonderful milestone for your people. Who knows? Maybe someday we'll have a Negro President, or a woman! (Not me, I'd be terrible at public speaking.)

I'm sorry, I shouldn't joke. But it's been such a bizarre, unreal week. I can't believe he's dead. He was so young and handsome, witty and inspiring. He had everything to live for. And poor Jackie! I can't imagine what it'd be like to become a widow so young, with two little children. And they seemed to have a perfect marriage. I would like a marriage like that, where the husband and wife are like equals. No, that isn't a proposal!

Sorry, I'm joking to hide my pain. It's a bad habit I've picked up from my mother. She was joking a lot at our Thanksgiving dinner yesterday.

We ate at Nanna's. She's my mother's mother but they're not close. I think she's the one person that Mother is scared of. Nanna is kind to me. She thinks Mother is stupid. ("All boobs and no brains" is what I heard her say once. I would definitely cross that out if I ever thought you'd see this letter. I am the opposite, all brains, and, well, anyway.)

Nanna is very rich. I bet you think I'm rich compared to you, but Nanna's second husband is a millionaire! There were more servants than guests at dinner. Besides Nanna, Mr. Reynolds (step-grandfather), me, Mother, and Daddy, there was just one of my uncles, Archie (my other uncle, Cornelius, is in the Army, so he's in Washington this week), my widowed Aunt Barbara, and her cute little daughter.

Christy is six and a shy little thing. Shyer than I am. She'll talk to me because "You're not like other teenagers, Angela." (It's a compliment, trust me.) She's blonde (natural I mean) and sometimes when I babysit her, I pretend she's my kid sister. She loves it when I read to her.

I bet you have a big Italian family, with lots of brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Are you one of the oldest kids or one of the youngest? I'm going to pretend that you're the third oldest, of nine. You have a responsible older brother and a bossy big sister and then there's you, the easy-going one who's protective but fun with the younger kids. Your second oldest sister is named, let's see, Sofia and she's twelve and you would never let her kiss strange boys at summer camp.

I'm sorry, I'm getting carried away. But it makes me happy to imagine your big, loving family. With lots of yummy Italian food. I bet your mother and your grandmothers are wonderful cooks!

Not that Nanna's cook, or ours, is bad of course. Thanksgiving was a very nice meal in itself. But no one was happy, and poor Christy was so scared of Nanna that she couldn't talk in front of her.

"Barbara, is your child a mute?" That's what Nanna said.

Anyway, writing this letter to you has helped again. I still hope to see you again next summer. And we can talk about our families and anything else we can think of. This past summer already seems like a long time ago. But then, JFK was still alive.

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Take Care,

Angela


	3. Winter of '64

Feb. 7, 1964

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Dear Ingrid,

I did something crazy today. I went out to JFK. (It's still weird to me that it's an airport, not just the name of a person. I mean, usually doesn't someone have to be dead a long time to get something named after them? Well, not Grant's Tomb I guess.)

Anyway, yeah, I saw the Beatles. I mean, I couldn't see much of them. They were too far away and I'm too short to have seen around or over all the girls who were jumping up and down and screaming. But it was still exciting to be there. The funny thing is, Philly and the guys aren't even fans. They just wanted an excuse to ditch school. I think we were the youngest ones there.

I like the Beatles OK. Tiny says their hair is sissy but the girls in our neighborhood—Frankie, Tanya, Marie, and all them—don't agree. I wonder how I would look in a Beatles cut. Nah, I won't do it. I couldn't stand the razzing from the guys. Plus Grandpa and probably Pop would have a fit if I grew my hair long.

Anyway, even though I prefer Sinatra, Motown, and doo-wop, the Beatles songs are OK. Catchy, you know?

I was thinking of you while I was at the airport, imagining if you'd somehow come down from Connecticut to see them, although maybe your parents are super protective and wouldn't let you go into the City even with a couple friends. But it would've been fun to have you there. But maybe you don't like pop music. Maybe you just like classical, or even opera! (Nah, opera is OK. Grandpa listens to it on the radio, and of course a lot of it is Italian. But then I make him listen to Sinatra, to even things out. Motown and doo-wop are too much for him, and he says the Beatles are just noise.)

If you do like the Beatles, I wonder if you have a favorite. All the girls on Pitkin Avenue are dividing them up and claiming them, so like Frankie is a "John Girl," because she's smart and she likes to argue. (If she were a guy, she'd probably grow up to be a lawyer.) Tanya likes Paul because he's the cutest. Marie likes George because she says she likes the quiet type. And Gina, this little squirt who's in kindergarten, she likes Ringo because she feels sorry for him. See, all the girls.

So then the guys of course have to pretend to hate the Beatles to balance things out. But I don't.

Since you're taller than me, maybe you would've seen more of them than I did. It would've been a nice thing to do together, maybe holding hands. Yeah, I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand.

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I want to hold your hand,

Anthony

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P.S. You do not want to know what Philly sings that he wants to hold!

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Feb. 9, 1964

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Dear Anthony,

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You're so lucky you live in New York! If I lived there, maybe I could've seen the Beatles in person. Not at the airport on Friday, since I would've had to miss school, but maybe I could've gotten tickets to see them on _Ed Sullivan_ tonight. Of course, you probably wouldn't want to go. (I know it's silly, but when they panned to the audience, I'd look for you, just in case somehow you were there.) But maybe you would've taken me, as a date.

I know, I live in a dream world. Dating you is only slightly more plausible than becoming Mrs. Paul McCartney. (I love all the Beatles, but I think he's my favorite. I love his big brown eyes and wavy brown hair. And he's so sweet and charming.)

I love pop music, even though Nanna says it's trashy. Mother understands though. She still adores Frank Sinatra, and has since she was my age and a bobby-soxer. My favorite music is Motown, even though Grandfather Reynolds calls it "colored music." He thinks it's dreadful that Englishmen would want to sing songs written by Negroes, but I love all the Beatles cover songs.

My favorite is "Please Mr. Postman." It's our song, just kidding. But it does make me think of you. Sometimes I wish that you somehow found out my real name and address and decided to write to me. And then we could be pen pals. Yes, I would like to have a real boyfriend, but of course that wouldn't be practical to date you, even if I wanted to, because you live so far away. And it's over two years till we'll be old enough to drive!

Yes, I could take the train into the City, but Daddy is too overprotective for that. And if it were to see a boy who lives in Brooklyn, well, you can imagine! Not that he's a snob but still, he would worry.

I know, this will never ever be a problem, because I'll probably never see you again. But what if we do meet up at camp in the summer, as I still hope we will? What then? We'll be 14 then (my birthday's in May, I wonder when yours is), almost in high school. Maybe I could have you visit the house. I'm sure Mother would like you, but I don't know about Daddy.

I wonder what your family would think of me. Maybe they wouldn't approve because I'm not Italian, or even Catholic. Or maybe they would be warm and welcoming and try to fatten me up with that yummy Italian cooking.

I know, I need to find a boyfriend in real life. Maybe in high school. Meanwhile, I'll write to you every once in awhile and kiss my Paul McCartney poster for good luck. (Don't worry, Paul's not as good a kisser as you. At least the two-dimensional version of him isn't.)

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From Me to You,

Angela


	4. Spring of '64

April 23, 1964

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Dear Ingrid,

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It's my twelfth birthday. Yeah, I'm still too young for you, but I guess it doesn't matter since we'll probably never see each other again. I still think about you though. I wonder when your braces will come off and how your teeth will turn out. I wonder if you still wear that terrific perfume, or only on dates. (Does our kiss count as a date? My best friend Bobby Governale says you have to have food on a date.)

I wonder if you think about me. I wonder what you think about me. I wonder how many boys you've kissed since me. I haven't kissed any girls since you. Not that I'm "waiting for you" or something. It's just, I haven't really had any opportunities. And, OK, I haven't met any girls I want to kiss as much as I wanted to kiss you that night. (And, no, not because nobody would be paying me this time.)

I also wonder if I should try selling subscriptions to _Popular Mechanics_ again. Oh, you don't know about that. Well, I had a great pitch last year. I'd say, "Ay, my name is Tony Micelli. Would you like to buy a magazine from me and send me to camp, or would you rather I spend the summer on the streets…with my buddies…near your car!" Worked like a charm.

I get into trouble sometimes. I'm not like a hoodlum or something. But, you know, stuff like stealing candy or street signs. Not organized crime. Don't think that I'm in the Mafia or something, just because I'm Italian. I'm not in a gang. I try to be a good kid, to make Grandpa and Pop proud of me. (And Mom, if she's watching from Heaven.) But you know, sometimes my buddies want to do stuff, and you can't be a chicken, right?

You probably wouldn't understand this. I bet you're clean-living, like Sandra Dee or Annette Funicello. That's all right. Yeah, you could reform me if you wanted to, but I'm not that much of a project.

Have you heard _The Beatles' Second Album_? (Yeah, not the most original title, and not even accurate, but that's OK.) I like what they did with Smokey Robinson's "You Really Got a Hold On Me." I think that could almost be our song, because you do have a hold on me, even though I've only spent a few minutes with you. (One very precious minute in particular. Well, 57 seconds.) But I can't get you out of my system, not yet.

Maybe it's that I don't really know you. You can be anything I can imagine, as long as you're tall and blonde. The girls I know, I see them good days, bad days. I just saw you one magic night.

But maybe I owe it to myself to try to get back to Y Camp this summer. To see if you're as great as I remember. Of course, for all I know, you think you're too old for camp now, what with going into high school in the Fall, and I'd show up and you wouldn't even be around. Not that camp wouldn't be fun without you, but not as fun.

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Sincerely,

Anthony

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P.S. I got some nice gifts. My favorite is probably the transistor radio Pop gave me, although he makes me turn it off before I go to sleep.

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May 20, 1964

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Dear Anthony,

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This is my fourteenth birthday. Have you had your birthday yet? I wonder what month you were born. I like to imagine that even with your big family, no one ever forgets your birthday. Your little brothers and sisters give you handmade gifts, which you love because they come from the heart. And your grandmother knits you sweaters and socks, which you wear even though they make you look un-cool, for the same reason.

My grandmother gave me a grandfather clock. It's lovely, a family heirloom in fact, but, well, it's not exactly what a fourteen-year-old girl wants, is it? I'd honestly rather have a Timex, especially since I'll be starting high school in a few months and punctuality is one of the keys to success.

Daddy took me to a bookstore and let me buy everything I wanted, which was a lot. I've been reading more classic literature, not only because it helps me develop my vocabulary and prepare for high school (and college after that), but also because I like escaping into the past. Jane Austen is my favorite, and I would love to have lived in that world, although I'm not sure I'd want to just sit around and wait for people to visit, or for me to visit them.

Mother took me clothes-shopping, which was nice of her, but she came home with more outfits than I did. Whatever she chooses looks right on her, while I really am going through an awkward stage. I'm still getting taller, taller than most of the boys I know. (Not just you, although maybe you've hit your growth spurt by now.) And unfortunately I don't seem to be growing out much yet. (I would cross that out if I were sending this to you. You don't need to hear about my bust, or lack thereof!)

And, I don't know if you noticed, but my height makes me clumsy. My Aunt Barbara, who's tall like me and Nanna, says that I just have to get used to my height and then I'll carry myself with pride. Nanna says I need to stop slouching.

Barbara bought me a new hi-fi set. It's fab! Yes, I still love the Beatles. Diane Fortescue, this girl who lives down the street, cried her eyes out when she found out that John is married. I'm glad I picked Paul. She has dyed her red hair black in mourning. Mother thinks Diane "has flipped her wig, no pun intended."

Mother doesn't know about my peroxiding, or any other summer experiments. Oh, not that you were just an experiment! It was a very special kiss, but when I went to meet you at Kissing Rock, I didn't know what it would be like.

Sometimes at slumber parties, I practice kissing on the back of my hand, so I'll be ready for you, or some other boy someday. Yes, I'll kiss the back of your hand, ha ha.

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Kisses,

Angela


	5. Summer of '64

July 4, 1964

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Dear Ingrid,

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It's been almost a year since we kissed and I still think about you. In fact, I've written you a few letters, but this is the first one I've sent. It's not my fault. I don't know your last name or your address. But I was thinking, if you went back to camp this summer, then maybe I could just send you this letter there, since you must be the only Ingrid there, right?

I wanted to go back, really. But I didn't sell enough subscriptions this summer. Maybe next year. And maybe, if you're interested, we could meet up sometime. You must go to New York occasionally, right? Maybe I could visit you in Connecticut, if you're cool with that.

If any of my buddies was going to Y Camp, I could just have him give you this letter. (Unfortunately, my worst enemy, Mickey Callahan, won the subscription contest for my neighborhood. If you see him, run in the opposite direction, I'm not kidding.)

Of course, you're a big secret that I've never told anyone, not even my best friend, Bobby Governale. I mean, they know I kissed you, but they don't know about the letters. They'd think I'm crazy, hung up on a chick I've only spent a few minutes with. Someone I probably don't have anything in common with.

Maybe you think I'm crazy, too. Maybe it was just a kiss to you. Please write back anyway, even if it's to tell me to buzz off. I'd like to get this settled, one way or the other.

But if you are interested, please send me a picture. I don't care if it's in your camp uniform. I want to see how tall you are now and if your braces have come off yet. I cut my lip on them, but it was worth it. I'd still like to kiss you again, if you're up for it.

Do you want to go see _A Hard Day's Night_? It's supposed to be out in America by the time you get back from camp. I like the Beatles and I hope you do, too. Or we could see something else if you want. I'll pay.

I'm mostly hanging out with my buddies. Watching and playing baseball. I've never mentioned it in my other letters (which you haven't read, but maybe I'll let you if we go out), but I love baseball. Me and Pop are Mets fans. Do you like it? We could catch a game sometime, or at least watch it on TV.

I hope you're having a good 4th of July. I remember how the fireworks looked over the lake. I wish we could watch them together. Maybe next year, not necessarily at camp.

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Write back soon,

Anthony

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July 5, 1964

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Dear Anthony,

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This is my mother's birthday. She's only 33! She got married at 18. I think that's much too young. I plan to go to college and maybe even have a career, at least until I start having children. When I was a little girl, I used to envy Doris Day in her movies, having glamorous careers and beautiful New York apartments. But I would wonder what happened to her afterwards, each time Rock Hudson swept her off her feet.

I wonder if you're a traditional Italian boy and want a big family and a wife who doesn't work. Not that we'd ever get married. Heck, we'll probably never even kiss again. But it is something I speculate about.

I wish I could talk to you, find out more about you. I like writing these unsent letters to you, but it is very one-sided.

I debated whether to dye my hair again this summer, but I decided you should see me as I really am, especially since I'd be admitting my real name as well. And now you're not here. Or if you are at the Y Camp, you're avoiding me. I prefer to think you just didn't go. Maybe you have a summer job.

Camp is as fun as last year, I mean the non-Kissing-Rock parts. I do horseback-riding, rowing, hiking, archery, and so much more. I'm not very athletic but I enjoy it. I mean, I'm too clumsy to do well, but I love moving my body. (Oh dear, that's another part I'd have to cross out!)

Anyway, I like the sunshine and also the star-gazing. And the singing and, I must admit, the s'mores. I have a sweet tooth, but I try to watch what I eat. I'm still lanky. Maybe I'll fill out by next summer, and maybe you'll be back then.

I know, I'm probably kidding myself. But you're such a nice daydream.

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Dreaming of you,

Angela

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August 15, 1964

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Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, I saw _Hard Day's Night_ , without you. I had to take another girl, Marie Milano, even though she's only 11. We just held hands and I know she was mostly going so she could ogle George Harrison. Still, it was better than going alone. I guess it met Bobby Governale's definition of a date, since we had popcorn.

I was really mad at you for not writing back to me. I told you to write, even if it was a rejection letter, just so I'd know. And weeks went by and nothing. Then today I get a letter, and it's from me.

It was "Return to Sender." I guess you didn't go back to camp. Or maybe they wouldn't deliver the letter to you without a last name. I don't know. But anyway, you don't know what I wrote last time. I think I'll keep writing to you though. No harm, right?

I don't know if I'll go out with Marie again. I guess I should start playing the field, now that you're definitely not an option. But she seems a lot more immature than you. Well, she is three years younger. Yeah, OK, she's only one year younger than me, but I'm grown up for my age, I think. Hey, I held my own kissing you last year, didn't I?

I wonder who you're kissing this summer. Did you go back to Make-Out Rock without me? I know, I have no right to be jealous. We're not exactly going steady. Well, like I said, maybe you're not even at Camp Stuck-Up this year. Of course, you might be kissing guys in Connecticut. But it's none of my business of course.

Still, if our paths ever cross again, I hope we kiss. And maybe by then, I'll have some experience and I'll be better at it.

.

Kisses maybe,

Anthony

.

.

.

August 15, 1964

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Oh my God, I've had the most embarrassing experience of my life and I can't tell anyone about it! So of course I'm writing to you, knowing that you'll never see this. And if you did, I don't know if you'd laugh or yell. Even though it's sort of your fault.

No, I know, it's mine for being stupid and naive. But what else was I to think?

OK, I'll back up because I'm babbling. I got a note addressed to "Tall Brunette." So of course I thought it was from you! And I was sure it was for me, because even though there are a couple other tall brunettes in my bunk this year (two of the girls who were brunette but not tall last year), this note was actually on my pillow. So I opened it up and it said, "Hey, Cutie, Meet me at the Rock." It wasn't signed but I just thought it had to be you. And the girls from last year were convinced it was "my Italian Romeo."

So I glided across the forest, just like last year. I again felt at one with the creatures of the night, a free untamed spirit. But this time when I got to the clearing, I saw a boy with curly blond hair!

"Hey, Cutie," he said.

"Um, hi."

"The name's Mickey. What's yours?"

"Um, Claudette." (I'd seen _It Happened One Night_ three times on TV the week before I left for camp.)

"Nice. So you wanna French kiss?"

Now here's the awful part, and you'll probably think I'm a bimbo who's always kissing at Kissing Rock, but I said yes! I mean, he was cute, and it's not like you and I are going steady or anything. Also, I wanted to know if it was you or the moonlight that had been magical.

I think I can safely say that it was you. Not only did I feel so nervous and uncomfortable with him that I accidentally put his nose in my mouth instead of his tongue (!), but he tried to feel me up! I slapped him of course.

"Hey, don't be a tease. What are you doing here at Make-Out Rock if you don't wanna make out?"

"It's Kissing Rock and I've had enough kissing for tonight." And I ran off through the woods. I was afraid he'd chase after me, but I suppose the nose-licking was as much of a discouragement as the slap.

When I got back to the bunk, I just told the girls that it wasn't you so I left.

I guess in some ways that was my first real kiss, but I prefer to count the one with you.

.

Kisses not on the nose,

Angela

.

.

.

August 29, 1964

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, I was mad at you again, but then it turned out I was wrong, so I'm sorry. Mickey Callahan came home from camp bragging about making out with a 14-year-old from Camp Stuck-Up. It was even at "our Rock." He said, well, if you were reading this I'd have to cross this part out, but he said she "put something in her mouth that most girls wouldn't put"! Then I found out that the girl was some brunette named Claudette, so I knew it wasn't you. I hope you'll forgive me for thinking you'd be so sleazy. And knowing Callahan, he probably made up the whole thing, to top my story from last summer.

And like I said before, you probably didn't even go to camp this year, right? I hope you don't go back till I do, and I hope I'm the only one you'll make out with at Make-Out Rock.

.

Kisses if you still want 'em,

Anthony


	6. Fall of '64 to Summer of '65

October 31, 1964

.

Dear Anthony,

.

I went to my first high school dance tonight. Did your school do anything for Halloween? I wish I could go to a dance with you someday, but that's probably not possible. I'm too clumsy to be a good dancer, but I still enjoy it.

I didn't expect to have a date, but William Wilmington asked me out at the last minute. He's a sophomore! And very handsome. The girl he wanted to take, Diane Fortescue, caught a cold. I didn't mind being his second choice. I was just happy to be asked.

The problem was that my father is very protective of me. Even though boys hardly ever notice me (at school I mean, it's different at summer camp), he's always worried some boy might take advantage of me. And he doesn't trust William specifically. So he volunteered to be a chaperone. That was embarrassing enough, but the real embarrassment was when everyone was doing the Frug and he started a conga line!

I was also embarrassed when my mother showed up in a Cleopatra costume (looking stunning of course). I was dressed as Jane Eyre, but most people didn't realize that. William wore his older brother's college sweater over his regular clothes and that was about the extent of his costume. And Daddy, well, he was dressed as Ricky Ricardo. He wanted Mother to dress as Lucy, since she's a redhead, but she wouldn't go for it.

Still I had fun. And I know my parents love me, even when they embarrass me. I'm sure it's the same in your family, which I imagine is very close-knit and old-fashioned. Does your father let your sisters date? Obviously, Daddy doesn't know I kissed you last year. (Even Mother doesn't know. She'd tease me too much.) No, William didn't kiss me, but then Daddy didn't let me be alone with William more than a minute.

I'm enjoying high school in general. The workload is more challenging than in junior high, but I thrive on that. I wonder what kind of student you are. I picture you as well-rounded, good at sports, maybe with a B average. (I so far have an A average, which I hope to maintain.) My favorite class is English. I love poetry as well as fiction. And I think I write well, although maybe these letters aren't the best sample of that.

In any case, I will keep writing to you, until our paths cross again, hopefully next summer.

.

Happy Halloween,

Angela

.

.

.

February 14, 1965

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Last year I got only one Valentine's card, from my parents. This year I didn't get any. But I don't care about that, because Daddy is in the hospital. He had a heart attack. The doctor says he's been working too hard. He used to work even harder up until a few years ago, when Mother apparently convinced him to take better care of himself. But that time took its toll, and he still pushes himself really hard. I'm the same way, because I want to be successful, do my best. Mother is more casual about things. She just wants to have a good time.

I hope Daddy will be OK. He's such a good father, kind and supportive. If you were reading this, I'd ask you to pray for him.

.

Happy Valentine's Day (even though this isn't a romantic letter),

Angela

.

.

.

May 20, 1965

.

Dear Anthony,

.

I turned 15 today. It's my first birthday without Daddy. It's been a couple months but I still miss him terribly. Poor Mother has fallen apart. She loved him very much. And she was dependent on him, for all the practical things in life. Someone has to take care of that now, so I've stepped in. I love Mother, but I would never want to be like her in this way. If I were married and I lost my husband, I'd want to carry on without him. And even now, although I'm only a teenager, I'm paying the bills and everything.

It's not that I'm unchanged by his death of course. I've been very sad and I find that almost the only thing that comforts me is food. Yeah, I'm not the skinny blonde you kissed almost two years ago. I'm a chubby brunette now. And I've been reading so much (my other escape), that I need glasses now. Boys are even less interested in me than they were. Not that it matters. Probably no man will ever love me as unconditionally as my father.

Still, yes, I'm writing to you, my almost imaginary boyfriend. I wish we'd stayed in touch. I wish I could get hugs from you. (Mother's not much for hugging.) Part of me hopes you'll go to camp this year, even though I don't want you to see me like this. Even if you wouldn't be attracted to me anymore, maybe we could still be friends. I don't have any close friends and I could use someone to talk to.

.

Hugs,  
Angela

.

.

.

August 1, 1965

.

Dear Anthony,

.

It's been about two years since our kiss, and two years since I've seen you. I never imagined I'd still be writing to you, but it comforts me. I bet you've half forgotten me by now. And, yes, if you saw me, you probably wouldn't even recognize me. No one has invited me to Kissing Rock this year, but perhaps that's just as well. I'm glad I have that happy memory of you. It seems so long ago, before my Father and JFK died. And, yes, back when I was a lanky blonde.

.

Thinking of you,

"Ingrid"

.

.

.

August 15, 1965

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I wasn't planning to write to you again, because I've started dating other girls, and it seemed kind of silly having this unrequited pen-pal situation. Not that it's anything serious with anyone. I mean, I'm only 13! (Still too young for you. But a little taller, and my voice is changing.) But when my Grandpa died in May I thought of you, and how I wrote to you when JFK died.

I really miss Grandpa. He was always there for me. And he taught me to dance, well, tap-dancing, which hasn't helped at school dances, but it's still good to know. (The nuns won't let us do the Twist or anything with too much "gyration." And we can't hold the girls too close. I was so nervous at my first dance anyway, my palms started sweating and I left prints on the girl's dress!)

Anyway, I got in some trouble with the cops and Grandpa went down to the station with me, even though it meant he'd miss the naturalization ceremony. He loved this country, even though he missed Italy sometimes, and he really wanted to be a citizen. And now he can't. And it's all my fault. I wish I could talk to you about that. Pop, Father Marconi, and my friends don't understand. Even Mrs. Rossini, our neighbor who's sort of like an honorary aunt, she says it was Grandpa's time.

I have another grandfather, but I've never met him. His name is Anthony Romano, so, yeah, I'm named after him. My mother, Lina, came over here on her own and moved in with distant relatives, who introduced to her Pop, Matteo Micelli, Jr.

Grandpa's brothers and sister came over for the funeral. Aldo is the only one who speaks English, since he needs it for business. He has a winery. Great-Uncle Vincenzo and Great-Aunt Rosa made me speak Italian to them, even though I don't know much. Pop had to translate a lot.

I'd like to go to Italy someday. I love Brooklyn, but part of me wants to get out and see the world. But Pop drives a garbage truck, and I probably won't have any better a future than he has. I mean, he's happy, but I'm restless, especially now that Grandpa's gone. But it's still five years till I'm an adult, a long, long way off.

It's weird to picture you as 15. I'm now the age you were when we met. I wish I could see you again. But that ain't gonna happen, right? There was no way I could've gone to camp this summer, even if I had sold subscriptions. I couldn't leave Pop on his own, right after he lost his father. But maybe someday, if I do get out into the world, our paths will cross again.

.

See you someday,

Anthony

.

P.S. I wish I could see _Help!_ with you. I keep thinking about the title song. I know it sounds silly, since I'm so young, but this part really gets to me:

"When I was younger, so much younger than today  
I never needed anybody's help in any way  
But now those days are gone, I'm not so self-assured  
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors."


	7. Fall of '65 to Summer of '66

October 1, 1965

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I'm a sophomore now. Oh, of course you are, too. So maybe you know what it's like to start high school with such high hopes and then be disappointed. I know, part of it is that I lost Daddy in my freshman year, but that's not all of it. I hope you don't think it's shallow, but I wish I were more successful socially. (I'm still successful academically, even though Daddy is no longer around to encourage me. Mother is proud of me I think, but there are times I think she'd be prouder if I were a gorgeous, popular cheerleader with average grades.)

Anyway, sometimes I go into the cafeteria and I look longingly at the In Crowd. They're so poised and confident, even the ones who are my age, even the freshmen! Sometimes I feel like I'd trade my good grades just to sit at their table. Not that they're bad students. They get mostly B's.

I'm too shy to even say hi to them. And I feel self-conscious because I'm so fat. And of course then I put more food on my tray. It's a circular problem, I know. And related to that, I never date, so I would feel left out in that way, although I feel like if I got into the Crowd, then I could meet and go out with the cute, popular boys.

I bet you'd be popular at my school, unless you're going through an awkward stage, too. I wonder what they would think if they'd knew I'd kissed a cute boy. (Well, two if you count that creep Mickey.) But that feels more and more like another life.

.

Take Care,

Angela

.

.

.

February 14, 1966

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Another lonely Valentine's Day. (For me I mean, maybe not for you.) And I've got a terrible crush! I don't have any close friends, so I can't tell anyone about it. And Mother wouldn't believe it. You see, it's not an athlete or a member of the Student Council or anyone else who's popular. Not that he's unpopular. But he's too cool to care about things like that.

His name is Jake Maguire. He's a musician, but he's not a bit like Paul McCartney. He's more of a bad boy, like the Rolling Stones. He drives a motorcycle. His nickname is Jake the Snake. Daddy would be horrified if he were alive, but of course Jake would never go out with someone like me, a fat girl, a nice girl.

Still, maybe it's the same reason I kissed you two and a half years ago, that there's a side of me that doesn't want the man in the Brooks Brothers suit but the guy in the leather jacket. I was drawn to you because you were forbidden and illicit.

Jake takes girls to Inspiration Point, bad girls of course. Sometimes I wish I were a bad girl, or could be bad one night. Not that I would go all the way! I'm saving myself for marriage, even if it sometimes seems like I'll never get married. Maybe I'll just be a career girl. Anyway, I would like to make out at Inspiration Point, but just like necking.

My mother dates now that she's gotten over Daddy's death. I don't like it. I think of how much I dislike my step-grandfather, Mr. Reynolds. I would hate to have Mother choose a bad second husband like Nanna did. (I mean, Mr. Reynolds doesn't drink or beat Nanna or anything. I just don't like him as a person. I think she just married him for his money.)

Anyway, Mother doesn't act like she's looking to get married again, so that should be a relief, except that Mother, um, well, the nice way to put it is she plays the field, like Diane Fortescue. Mother doesn't date any man more than two or three times but I think she, well, she's not saving herself for a second marriage.

As for Jake, well, it's not just the necking I'd like (even though I haven't kissed anyone in ages), but also the romance and excitement of it. I would love to date a musician, who'd dedicate a romantic song to me. And I picture Inspiration Point as in a woodland setting, like Kissing Rock I suppose, only with someplace to sit. I think of the moonlight and the crickets. Could it be as magical with Jake as it was with you so long ago? I know, I'll never know. I'm just as likely to kiss you again as to kiss Jake, and that's only slightly more likely than kissing Paul McCartney. Or Mick Jagger.

.

Daydreaming again,

Angela

.

.

.

May 20, 1966

.

I had my Sweet Sixteen party tonight. My mother teased me about being Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed of course. Yes, if she only knew, although mostly my teenage years have been pretty mild so far.

I think I'll give up on the idea of dating, at least until college. Hopefully I'll either finally turn from a caterpillar into a butterfly, or I'll meet men who aren't just interested in a girl's appearance.

I've been looking at the brochure for Montague Academy. It's a girls' school and has very high academic standards. There will be fewer temptations, like Jake, and I can just focus on my studies. I think if I stay here, I'll end up acting out, rebelling. And then what will that do to my future?

I don't think Mother would mind if I went away to school. She's got her social life and we're not that close. I doubt she'd even miss me. She says it's a shame that this will be my last summer at camp, since it only goes up to age 16.

Yes, it's my last chance to meet you at Kissing Rock. I know, it's a silly dream that I should've long since outgrown. But as long as there's a chance, then I'll take it. And if you're not there, well, I'll have fun as usual. And maybe lose a little weight with swimming and hiking and all.

.

Sweet Sixteen Kisses,

Angela

.

.

.

July 4, 1966

.

I watched the fireworks over the lake tonight, thinking of how much I wish I was watching them with you, and knowing that that will now positively, never ever happen. It feels like I'm growing up, three years after my first grown-up kiss. In some ways, I feel very old for my age, paying bills and being the practical one for my mother. But in other ways, I'm still innocent and inexperienced. It's like I'm still waiting for my life to begin. Maybe that will happen at Montague, or maybe not till college. But I'm doing my best to enjoy this last summer of swimming, archery, and crickets in the moonlight.

.

Hope your summer is good,

Angela

.

.

.

August 1, 1966

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Yeah, I didn't go to camp again. But I have become a Boy Scout. Don't laugh. Pop thought it would keep me out of trouble, and give me a chance to do some of the stuff I did at camp, like woodwork.

You're probably not even at camp this year, right? I mean, you're sixteen, that's practically an adult. As for me, well, at least I'll be in high school finally, Pitkin High. Yeah, it'll be a short walk, since I live on Pitkin Avenue. It'll be an adjustment being in public school instead of Catholic school, but I'm looking forward to it. And I'll see all my buddies, so that's good.

But, yeah, I'm still too young for you. You'll be a junior and I'll be a lowly freshman. You're probably already dating college guys, rich ones with nice cars. I can't compete with that. Still, I think about you, three years after we kissed. (And yeah, I've kissed a few other girls in the past year.)

.

Hope life is good,

Anthony (but I think I'll start going by "Tony" once school starts)


	8. Fall of '66 to Summer of '67

Nov. 24, 1966

.

Dear Anthony,

.

I hope you're having a good Thanksgiving. We went to Nanna's as usual. She's very proud of me for going to Montague Academy, not because of the high academic standards (I realize now how easy my old high school was), but because "you meet a better class of people at a private school." Mother muttered, "Unfortunately, all female." But they both hope I'll date the brothers and cousins of my classmates. At this point, I'd be happy to date at all. But, yes, it is easier to concentrate on my studies.

I don't want to be a snob like Nanna, but I am aware that an A average at private school means more than an A average at a public school. I hope to get into a very good colllege, like Vassar, Bryn Mawr, or Radcliffe. Yes, I know those are all women's colleges, but they do have social events with their "brother schools." Yes, Montague does, too, but the boys at the nearby schools are such drips! I know, I can't afford to be choosy. But I still think about Jake, and sometimes you. I would like a boy with an edge to him.

Yes, good thing I'm here at what Mother calls "the nunnery." No chance for me to do anything too wild. It's for the best, really.

.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Angela

.

.

.

February 12, 1967

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Oh, I can't believe I did that! Last night was the Valentine's Dance with our brother school, but my roommate Jane Barth talked me into instead buying a fake ID with her! It gets worse. We walked into town and headed for the Boom-Boom Room, which is an awful dive. We weren't even supposed to be off campus without permission! But she kept daring me to do more, and I did.

They didn't even question the IDs, maybe because Jane and I are so fat. You see, fat women are sort of ageless. We could be 16, we could be 60. No one wants to look at us too closely.

I had my two first real drinks, Grasshoppers, because it's such a cute name. Also, they're my favorite color, green. (Well, mint green, from the crème de menthe, while my exact favorite color is emerald green.) They're so sweet and yummy that I would love to have more, but it turns out I'm a lightweight and it doesn't take much to get me drunk.

I didn't go as crazy as I could've. I mean, I didn't lose my virginity! But I did dance with a 24-year-old sailor. (To "Going to a Go Go" by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and then their "Tears of a Clown" for the slow song.) He was on leave and he'll be shipping out, back to Vietnam. I wanted to kiss him goodbye, since he might die, but Jane dragged me out of the bar because it was getting late and she didn't want us to be caught. On the way out, I threw up on my pumps. Yes, it was a full evening.

I'm going to tell Mother I went to the Valentine's Dance and was a wallflower. I figure she'll believe that more easily. But I had to tell someone, and who better than my sort of pen-pal?

Oo, I have such a hangover! And it's time to go to Sunday morning chapel. I don't think I'll ever do anything like this again, but I am glad I did it once and got it out of my system. I can go back to being the serious, academic good girl again.

.

Your pal,

Angela

.

.

.

April 29, 1967

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I might tell my mother about this, once I get over the humiliation, but I want to tell you first, since I don't have to worry about your reaction. The good news is I was actually asked to the prom by a terrific guy, Kenny Bigelow! He's movie-star handsome. The bad news, well, there's a lot of that.

I was all dressed up and ready to go, with Jane (who didn't have a date but was happy for me) having played lady's maid. Then at the last minute, Kenny called and said he had the flu. I of course felt bad for him, but it wasn't his fault. With Jane's encouragement, I decided to go to the prom anyway.

"That blue dress looks really nice on you, Ange. And who knows? Maybe you'll meet a boy who's going stag."

I didn't know about that, but I thought I may as well go. Yet, when I got there, I couldn't bring myself to go inside alone. So I stood outside, with my nose pressed to the window. The funny thing is, I wasn't having that bad a time. The theme was Tahitian Twilight. The gym looked like a South Seas Island, with palm trees, fishing nets, and conch shells. It was so romantic! And the music was catchy and I thought of dancing by myself, out in the garden.

But then I saw Kenny jitterbug by, glued to a cheerleader! I was so hurt and mad that I threw my crinoline up in the air and mooned him! And, believe me, my butt is so big that it was some mooning!

If you and I really had stayed in touch all these years, obviously I wouldn't be telling you this, but then maybe you would've been my prom date. I picture you in a rented tux, which you'd taken a part-time job to pay for. You'd look very handsome, even more than Kenny. You'd be taller than me by now, since you're 16 or 17.

I know, I still live in a dream world. But can you blame me, when this is my reality? I told Jane that I went into the gym and got asked to dance once, by a drip, but I was mostly a wallflower. I figured she'd believe that. She still sees it as a "triumph for fat girls everywhere."

.

Triumphantly,

Angela

.

.

.

August 1, 1967

.

Dear Anthony,

.

This is my first summer in a long time that I didn't go to camp. Instead, I got a summer job. I don't have to work (Jane and my other friends at Montague don't), but it's not really about the money. It's about being responsible, and I don't want to just drift through life like an heiress, or a hippie!

Ironically, my job involves keeping people from drifting. I'm an "oar girl." I work out at the lake, renting canoes and other small seacraft. I told them I had experience, since I did go out on the lake at camp, although I was never a very good rower or paddler. Mother was proud of me that I went in and got the job.

My boss almost didn't hire me because he didn't think the job could be done by a pretty, young girl. (OK, I'm sort of plain, but people tell me I have pretty eyes. And I am young, 17, when he usually hires college men.) Even after I got the job, he made me doubt myself. I got so nervous that one day I sent boat #17 out oarless! Mother joked that the scandal would spread all through town and we'd have to move. But she also encouraged me to go back and insist I could do the job. As it turned out, I wasn't fired. Most of the college men were smoking pot and I was definitely the hardest worker.

So I think I can keep the job through the rest of the summer, and it pays enough for me to go to the movies. Mother lets me go into the City, now that I'm living away from home anyway, and my favorite thing is to go to the revival theaters and see the classics. I of course went to _Casablanca_ when it was playing last week. It feels longer ago than four years that I pretended to be "Ingrid."

I'll admit that I half hope I'll run into you, although you're probably not an old-movie buff. There was one boy in the theater that I thought looked a little like you, but he must've been only 15 or 16, since he was my height and he looked like he was trying to grow sideburns but wasn't quite ready for them. I wonder if it was your younger brother, but I could hardly ask him if he has a brother named Anthony. I mean, he looked Italian, so that wouldn't mean anything, would it?

.

You must remember this,

Angela

.

.

.

August 1, 1967

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I've been thinking about you again, for the first time in a long while. I went to see _Casablanca_ at a revival theater. Just on my own, no date, no buddies, just me and the popcorn. No one I know likes old movies as much as I do, even Pop. I mostly watch them on TV, but I'm 15 now and I don't want to hang around the neighborhood all the time. So I've started exploring other parts of New York. I even saw a protest march! None of the girls wore bras. (Another sentence to cross out if I was actually sending this.)

Anyway, I found this cool theater and there were Bogie and Bergman. Yeah, Ingrid, not Ingmar. And I had this crazy thought that maybe you'd come down from Connecticut. I mean, you are 17. Even if your parents are over-protective, they're probably loosening the apron strings a little. After all, you'll probably be going off to college next year.

I wish I could go, but the money isn't there, and my grades aren't good enough that I could get an academic scholarship. I'm a good athlete, but I'd rather play pro ball than college ball, even if I could get an athletic scholarship.

Anyway, there was this moment when I sensed somebody was looking at me in the theater. I turned around and it was this fat girl with dark hair. Her eyes were kind of like I remember yours, so I looked to see if she had braces, but it's been four years and they're probably off by now, yours I mean. She had straight teeth, a nice shy smile. But you're not fat and brunette, right? Anyhow, she looked down at her pile of refreshments after awhile, so I went back to looking at the screen. That couldn't have been "my Ingrid," right? Not that you're mine, obviously, but you know what I mean. The Ingrid I kissed when I was a kid.

If you had been there, I would've gone over and said hello, even if you might not have remembered me. I'm getting really good at talking to girls, asking them out. Maybe I would've asked you to see _Duck Soup_ next week. The Marx Brothers are my favorite.

I remember when the Beatles first arrived in America, and people compared them to the Marx Brothers. That seems like a long time ago. Now they've turned into something else. I still like their music. I even got stoned to _Sgt. Pepper_. That was Philly Fingers's idea. It was just pot. I heard LSD messes up your hormones, and I want lots of kids when I'm older. Anyway, I don't think I'll make the drug scene. It's just not my style. Even Philly admits beer is better. (Not that we drink a lot. His fake ID is very fake-looking.)

I wonder what you're doing, here in the Summer of Love. I can't picture you as a hippie, even when you go off to college. Maybe you look like Twiggy, you know, tall and skinny and blonde, but that's more fashionable now. (I hope you don't have a pixie cut though. I like long, flowing hair.) Maybe you're graceful and sophisticated now. And, yeah, still too old for me, although I'm taller than you were when we met, 5'6". Maybe someday when I'm taller than you, our paths will cross. I'd at least like to go out for coffee with you. Or a beer.

.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm 64 (and you're 66),

Tony


	9. Fall of '67 to Summer of '68

September 26, 1967

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Another night that I may not be able to tell anyone about. Friday night I went to the drive-in with Johnny Hampstead. He's Jane Barth's cousin and she fixed us up. He's a college man! And very cute. A little plump, with glasses, but obviously I don't mind that.

He has a big yellow car, I forget the make. (You would probably know.) I was too distracted by the making out. Don't worry, I'm still a virgin. (At least I assume you'd worry.) But I did let him do what I wouldn't let that creep Mickey do three years ago: I let him feel me up, even under my bra! I liked it. I know, I'm so shameless! Well, maybe not as bad as Mother (who has more to feel up), but for me this was reckless.

I know, I've had more wild experiences since I've transferred to Montague than I ever had back home. So much for "the nunnery." I plan to tell mother I went to the movie, Elvis's _Easy Come, Easy Go,_ with six girls. You could fit seven girls in that car. The backseat is very roomy.

Johnny didn't pressure me for more. I think he was surprised to get as far as he did. And he was still smiling two days later, according to Jane, who saw him at their grandmother's birthday party. (I told Jane we necked. I didn't think she'd believe me if I said it was just kissing.)

I sometimes wonder how far you've gone with girls. After all, you're 17 and Italian. You're probably very passionate. And you're cute, so you probably get lots of opportunities. Also, you're the closest thing I have to an ex, so I can't help being curious. But maybe you're waiting till you're married. After all, you're a Catholic, although I know they (especially the boys) don't wait any longer than the Protestants sometimes. Unless you're planning to be a priest or a monk. (Joking. Unless you are, in which case I'm sorry I was joking.)

If you and I had been dating all these years, we probably would've gone as far as I went with Johnny, but I don't know if I'd have the willpower to stop above the waist. Well, maybe we'd be engaged, although I wouldn't want to get married young. Like I told you, I think Mother got married too young, and she was only a year older than I am now.

I would like to go steady. But I've never even had a second date! I wonder if Johnny will ask me out again. I hope he doesn't expect to go much further. Even if we were an item, I don't think I could. I'm not ready.

Do you think he'll ask me? After all, he obviously had a good time. But maybe I was too easy. Oh, dating is so complicated! I wonder if it's easier for boys. I wish I could ask you.

.  
Confused,

Angela

.

.

.

January 8, 1968

.

Dear Anthony,

.

My rebellion continues. No, not with boys. (And smiling though Johnny Hampstead may've been after the drive-in, he never did ask me for a second date. But maybe he wouldn't have even if I'd gone further. Or if I hadn't gone that far.) I rebelled at school.

Don't get me wrong. I still love Montague, in general. And I especially love English, although that's where I cheated. I didn't copy off anyone's test or homework. (Why should I, when I'm the top student?) But, well, I'll just tell you.

I had to write a 15-page paper, which normally would be no problem for me. But we were each randomly assigned an author, and I got Henry James, whom I loathe. I begged to be allowed to trade, but my teacher refused. And it wasn't like I could rant about the subject and stretch out the paper that way. I could only manage 14 pages. So I shortened the margins by a quarter of an inch, retyped it and handed it in as if it were a real 15-page paper!

Have you ever done anything like that? Well, maybe not about Henry James. The worst part is I handed in the paper before Christmas and had to spend the whole holiday break worrying about it. And then I got it back and I got an A-. I feel terribly guilty, but I don't want to confess, especially so close to graduation. And on the other hand, there's a part of me that feels that I was right to do this.

I really have turned into a secret rebel at Montague, which was the last thing I expected.

.

Rebel with a clause,

Angela

.

.

.

January 31, 1968

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Yeah, I'm writing to you when it's not even close to our anniversary. Well, I'm lying in bed, going stir-crazy. My so called best friend Bobby Governale tackled me when we were playing football, and now my knee is, well, messed up. (I'm trying not to swear in my letters to you, even though you'll probably never see them.) I should be able to walk without crutches in another week, and it's not as messed up as it could be, but I still hate having to lie here in bed all the time. Pop says I should try reading, but I'm not much of a reader. (Neither is he.) I watch TV, but that gets boring after awhile.

I had a dream last night about Grandpa Micelli. It's been ages. He said, "Look, Tony, if you wanna play sports, you're gonna get hurt. That's how life is." Which was wise, but it was weird for him to call me "Tony" because no one over 30 ever has.

I think about playing pro baseball, if I'm good enough by the time I finish high school. I guess I might get hurt doing that, maybe even worse than this. Of course, what team is gonna want a guy with a bum knee? Well, hopefully it'll be in better shape by then, still a couple years off.

It's weird to think you're finishing up high school. I wonder where you went. And I still wonder where you'll go to college. I can't even afford Brooklyn College, although the commute would be easy.

Any chance you'll go to college in New York? Not Brooklyn, but I don't know, like NYU? I still hope to run into you someday, which is crazy I know. Of course, I'm not running into anybody with this knee.

.

Hope you're feeling better than I am,

Tony

.

.

.

May 20, 1968

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I'm 18 now, an adult, although I don't feel any different. Maybe when I go off to college. I got accepted at Vassar! So I will technically be in the same state as you, although Poughkeepsie obviously isn't much closer to New York City. I wonder if you'll be staying in the City, whether or not you'll be going to college. It's still unlikely our paths will cross, but not impossible. And college is four years. A lot can happen between now and '72.

I'm going to commute from home, at least the first semester. It'll be strange living full-time with Mother again, but maybe we'll get along better now that I'm an adult. I'm going to get another summer job and buy a car. (Well, I have savings, too, gifts from Nanna and part of my inheritance from Daddy, although I don't want to dip too much into that.) We're not allowed to have cars on the Montague campus, and everything local is in walking distance anyway.

Yes, I suppose I could get to the City more easily, but I don't really want to drive in heavy traffic. You're probably used to it, since you live there. I wonder what kind of car you have. Probably nothing like Johnny Hampstead's. But I bet I could make you smile at the drive-in.

.

Baby You Can Drive My Car,

Angela

.

.

.

August 31, 1968

.

Dear Anthony,

.

It's been a busy, productive summer. Instead of applying at the lake, I got a job at the local paper, in the advertising department. I had to call or visit different businesses and either ask them to expand on their advertising with us, or start it. For someone as shy as me, this wasn't easy, talking to all those strangers. But I think it was good for me.

I realize now that, minor rebellions aside, I was very sheltered at Montague. There's so much going on in the world— wars, riots, assassinations on one end, and great changes in the arts (both fine and pop) on the other— and I've been missing out on a lot of it. I'll try to broaden my horizons in college.

I don't mean to brag, but I may as well tell you I was class valedictorian. So I'm not entirely ignorant. But the more I learn, the more I realize I don't know. I wish I could talk to you about the future, and what it all means.

.

Bravely despite my fears,

Angela

.

.

.

September 2, 1968

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Happy Labor Day! It's been kind of a crazy summer. I got my driver's license, but I can't afford a car. I do get to drive a vehicle, but it's the Rossinis' truck, making deliveries for their fish market. I'm saving what money I can for a car, but I end up spending a lot of it on dates.

I don't want to kiss and tell, even if you'll never read this, but I do have to tell you a little. There was this new girl who moved to the neighborhood. Gorgeous and fun. So I asked her out. I didn't even know her first name, just her last, Benedetti. We went out a few times, and she wore me out. Not like that! But we'd go dancing or shoot hoops or whatever (and, OK, neck), and she'd never get tired. Finally, I found out she's actually twins and I'd been taking them both out without realizing! (I guess if we'd gone further, I might've caught on sooner.) Anyway, they were doing it as a joke at first, but they both like me and they're not jealous of each other, and so I think I'll keep seeing them, but pace myself. Plus, it costs more to date two girls at once. (I mean in the same week, not the same night.)

.

Hope your summer's been saner,

Tony

.

P.S. My knee is healed, but I have to be careful when I'm playing baseball. Or necking.


	10. Fall of '68 and Winter of '69

October 5, 1968

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I've been in college about a month now, and in some ways it's very different, and in some ways it's still much the same. The hardest adjustment has been living with Mother again, but at least it's different than before I left for Montague. Now when she gets on my nerves, I can just drive over to the campus, as long as it's not too late. There's definitely a "generation gap" between us, but she's the free spirit and I'm the responsible one. (Though with a secret rebellious side of course.)

As for college itself, the courses are tougher than high school. Also, even at Montague, I was used to being the best and the brightest, but now I'm among other girls who were top at their schools. I know I can do the work, but I doubt I'll be valedictorian for the Vassar Class of '72.

How does it feel for you to be out of high school? What are you doing now that you're legally an adult? I wish I had a way of finding out, just for curiosity's sake. Yes, I have a vivid imagination, but it'd be good to know the truth.

.

Curiously,

Angela

.

P.S. I still love the Beatles, even though they're no longer the clean-cut young men they used to be. My favorite song these days is "Hey Jude." It's not only a lovely song, but it's so long that I sometimes time my homework against it.

.

.

.

January 20, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, we have a new president now. Hopefully, Mr. Nixon will bring this country back together. My new roommate Trish Baldwin prefers to date Republicans, because she thinks they have more money (unless they're the Kennedy type of course).

Yes, I have a roommate on campus. I got tired of living with my beautiful, popular mother and now I live with a beautiful, popular acquaintance. She's always the life of the party. And she was crowned Queen of the Winter Carnival. Her escort was Robert Andrew Holmby III, a football star with great shoulders, and a lot of other great features. And she didn't even appreciate him. She rates her boyfriends on the gum scale: how fast she can chew them up and spit them out. (Tommy Williams was a Chicklet!)

Meanwhile, I'm one of the girls who never has a Saturday night date. For fun and excitement, I eat fudge and sing along with the radio. Trish calls me a "cute little butterball."

She doesn't do much for my confidence obviously, although I don't think she means to be cruel. She just doesn't realize the effect she has on me. I miss Jane Barth, who was sweet and supportive, and almost as fat as I was. But Jane went to Berkeley and became a radical and I never see her anymore.

Do you have a roommate if you're going to college? I bet you live at home and still share a room with your older brother and maybe your oldest younger brother. I think I named them Luigi and Mario when I was daydreaming about your family one day. Luigi is 20 or 21 now and he's engaged to a nice old-fashioned girl who's a great cook. (Your oldest sister, um, Nina, just got married at 19.) Mario looks like you but he's two years younger. He's the one I saw at the movies.

I know, it's silly to have imagined a whole life for you, but I find it comforting, especially these days, to think of your close-knit old-fashioned family. Yes, with all that yummy Italian cooking.

.

Happy Inauguration Day,

Angela

.

.

.

February 15, 1969

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I hope you had a better Valentine's Day than I did. No, my problem wasn't due to romantic differences, but to artistic differences. (I'm too much of a gentleman to tell you how far I've gone, but I'll just say that it's more than Father Marconi approves of and less than my buddies think.)

I've actually got different sets of friends. Well, I get along with almost everyone (except for Mickey Callahan and a couple other guys). But I've got the buddies I hang out with—Bobby, Philly, Tiny, Peewee, and Dennis mostly. Then I've got the ones I play ball with, guys who hope to turn pro like I do. And there are of course my girlfriends, although not all of them are exactly friends. I mean, we don't have much to talk about, but we have fun.

And then there are the guys I've formed a singing group with. We're not technically a band, since none of us play instruments. It's all a capella, doo-wop in fact. It's me, Satch, Benny, Jimbo, and D.J.

Francesca Candino says it's too soon for '50s nostalgia, but we don't care. She's still got a smart mouth and likes to argue, but I will admit she's grown up to be gorgeous. She's the one girl who'll never go out with me. I thought at first it was that her dad is really over-protective (even by Brooklyn Italian standards), but she told me it's because I'm too full of myself and practically a juvenile delinquent, which you know ain't true, either of those.

Anyway, I love being in the group. I love getting up onstage and making people happy, getting all that positive reaction, especially from the girls. I'll admit I've got fantasies of performing and then having groupies tear my clothes off. Or maybe throwing underwear at me.

I was at a Sinatra concert recently, and this stacked redhead, probably in her late 30s, threw a huge red bra at him! My date, Tanya Stromball, thought the lady was too old to be doing that, but I admired her spirit. Tanya, as I confirmed later, wasn't wearing a bra to throw. And, yes, it was worth working extra hours for the Rossinis' to earn the money for those tickets.

I know, it sounds like my life is going good, with Frankie S. making up for Frankie C. And it was, till the Dream-Tones had a falling out. We were supposed to perform at the Valentine's Dance last night, but we had a serious argument. We've got these great green jackets that Benny's uncle the tailor got us a good deal on. But they think the sleeves should be pushed up and I know they're dead wrong.

Maybe we'll make up. Pop says that the majority rules and I should give in, but I'll admit I'm sort of stubborn. This girl, Darlene, who's as close as Pitkin Avenue gets to being a flower child, did my star chart and she says I'm Taurus the Bull. I almost said that astrology is bull, but then she ended up asking to see the tattoo I got recently, and we dropped the subject.

That was one reason I didn't want my sleeves pushed up. I got Robert Crumb's "Keep on Truckin' " on my upper right arm, and it probably wouldn't show, but I didn't want to take that chance. I got tattooed on a dare from my buddies, the Philly Fingers gang I mean. The tattooist didn't care that I'm not even 17 yet, since I had the cash. Another thing my "fish money" went towards.

Wow, I think this is the most I've written to you in a long time! Maybe I'll go back to writing quarterly or seasonally or whatever it was when I was 11. I always feel like not much is going on in my life, especially things you'd be interested in. And if we really were pen-pals, I probably wouldn't tell you about the girls in my life, which would make this letter shorter. But this was fun. So...

.

That's all till Springtime,

Tony

.

P.S. Maybe the group is a democracy, but it is called Tony and the Dream-Tones, so I should have more say, right? I mean, that makes me the boss, huh?


	11. Spring of '69, Part 1

March 21, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

It's Springtime and I think I'm in love! Even more incredible, I think it's mutual! Or it might become mutual anyway.

His name is Brian, Brian Thomas. He's in my Poetry class. (Yale lets Vassar students take courses there, and both schools are probably going coed this Fall.) He's a poet himself. I went to hear one of his readings in a coffeehouse last night. Trish went with me but got bored and left. I stayed, so moved by Brian's way with words. (Also I was sitting in a beanbag chair, and it was hard to get out of, especially since I'm still fat.) I actually cried a little and Brian looked at me and smiled sweetly.

He came over to me afterwards and helped me out of my chair. Then he held me close, not saying anything. Then he asked me out for tonight! I of course said yes. Not only does he have a beautiful soul, but he has cute brown hair, sideburns, and mustache.

No man has ever looked at me the way he does. Most can't see past my fat, or my glasses, or my acne. (At least my braces are gone and my teeth are OK.) We haven't even kissed yet, but I feel more of a spark between us than I have with anyone before. (You and I were just children when we kissed, so there couldn't be this kind of spark, where I feel like I'm a volcano waiting to erupt.)

It does feel funny writing to you about him, but who else could I tell? Mother would just scoff, and Trish would think I'm making the whole thing up. This is not at all the kind of thing that happens to me, usually. I'm not even sure what kind of thing it is, but I'm dying to find out.

.

Wish me luck on the date tonight,

Angela

.

P.S. I'll write to you however it goes. I think even if I am in love, I would miss my imaginary pen pal.

.

.

.

March 21, 1969

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I feel funny writing to you about this. I mean I did say I'd write to you in the Spring, but I didn't know this would be happening. At least I think it's happening. And I can't tell my buddies, at least not ahead of time, because then it might not happen. But I've got to tell someone or I'll burst. So, seeing as you'll probably never read this anyway, here goes.

I think I'm going to get laid tonight. And that, despite what my friends think, has never happened before. I've fooled around with different girls, as you know (or would know if you'd read my other letters), but it gets to a certain point and they put the brakes on. Hell, I even put the brakes on a couple times when I felt like it was all happening too fast. (I definitely couldn't tell my buddies that!)

But I've been seeing Tanya for awhile. And we call ourselves T 'n' T, because we're like dynamite. It's explosive! (I also call her "Tanya, Tanya, My Little Lasagna," because it rhymes and she is scrumptious. I'm sort of the Poet Laureate of Pitkin High, and the guys love to see what I write in the bathroom stalls each week.)

Anyway, Tanya and I aren't exclusive. I've never met a girl I'd want to go steady with. (Except maybe you, and I was just a kid then, and it wouldn't have worked out anyway, with us so different from each other.) But I have gone further with her (third base!) than anyone else. And we've got a date tomorrow. We're going to Coney Island in Bobby's beat-up old car. And it feels like it's gonna happen.

Part of me is excited (not just in that sense), and part of me is scared. This seems like such a big step. And what if I'm not any good at it? She's a technical virgin like me, so that helps a little, but it's not like she won't have an opinion on my skills, or lack of. And it's not just about my pride. I also want her to feel good, because I know that sometimes a girl's first time is bad, and sometimes it's really special, and it all depends on the guy. That's a lot of pressure, and I don't want pressure right now.

.

Wish me luck on the date tonight,

Tony

.

P.S. Inappropriate or not, I think I'm gonna write to you how it goes, because if it's awful, I can't tell my buddies that. And even if it's good, I might not kiss and tell them. Not that I'm going to tell you everything, even in an unsent letter. But I'll say generally how it went.

.

.

.

March 22, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Oh my gosh, I'm on a plane to Vegas! Well, I guess you'd know that from the postmark, if I were able to actually able to send this to you in Brooklyn, or wherever you are these days. (Sometimes I worry that you've been drafted and even killed in Vietnam, but I think I would sense somehow if you were dead, although that's silly of course.)

Anyway, as you may've guessed, the date with Brian is going well, very well! He's taking a nap right now, and I decided to sneak a quick letter to you, since no one even knows I've left the Northeast. (Mother probably thinks I'm eating fudge and singing along with the radio, while Trish has gone on Spring Break in Florida.)

Brian and I have talked, in class and out, about spontaneity. I wish I were a more spontaneous person. Maybe not to Mother's level, but more than I am. So tonight Brian and I joked about flying to Vegas for the weekend, and then suddenly it wasn't a joke.

We bought our tickets but since it was an hour till we had to check in for our flight, we decided to get dinner at the nicest airport restaurant. We sat in a cozy booth, with wine and candlelight. It was very romantic. Even the noise of the planes didn't bother us because sometimes we can communicate without words.

He did, however, write me a poem while we waited for our food. It goes, "India ink stained, heart kneeling; Fragments structure lamplight dust." Isn't that lovely and heartbreaking? And he told me that I'm the only one who understands his poetry. It's beyond the common rabble.

And then, as the meal went on, and we drank more wine, we got flirtier, and we ended up playing footsies! (We had to take off our galoshes first, since it was cold and rainy outside.) I don't know for sure, but I have the feeling that we'll go all the way this weekend. I suspect we'll share a room and let nature take its course.

I'm nervous obviously. I may be 18, almost 19, but you know (or would know if you'd read my other letters) how inexperienced I am, especially above the knee and below the waist. But Brian is so sweet and gentle that I'm glad it'll be with someone like him. Yes, I was going to save myself for marriage, but that seems silly and old-fashioned these days. And look at my mother. She sleeps with all those men she's not in love with. This will be different.

But I absolutely cannot tell her about this. Trish might suspect something, but then again, I think she thinks I've never even kissed a boy, and you know that's not true.

.

Wish me luck in Vegas (and I don't just mean in the casino),

Angela


	12. Spring of '69, Part 2

March 22, 1969

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Wow! I can't take this in. We did it. I mean I did it with Tanya. And it was great! Well, for me. I didn't last very long, because I was so nervous and everything. I felt bad for her, so she said I should make it up to her tomorrow night. So now I've got to borrow Bobby's car again, because I don't think we'd be able to manage it without a car. (OK, it was in the car, the backseat, but even if it was someplace else, we'd probably have to drive to that place, because if we do it around here, everyone will know.)

I don't know what I'll tell Bobby. Luckily, he doesn't ask a lot of questions. Still, I feel like everyone will be able to look at me and know. Which in a way is cool. I'm a man now, a month before my 17th birthday. But I don't want the guys asking for details.

Do you think Tanya will tell her friends? Would you? Did you? Sometimes I think you're still a virgin, a sheltered, protected Connecticut girl, and other times I remember how good you could kiss at 13, like you had an extra set of lips. So now that you're 18 or 19, maybe you're really something.

I wonder what you would've said or done if it had happened with you. Tanya made fun of me a little, but I almost couldn't blame her, since she must've been disappointed. I bet you would've been sweet about it. Well, it was never gonna be you. I realized that a long time ago. Even if our paths crossed someday, you could never be my first. And I probably couldn't be yours.

I know, I should be happier than I am. I got laid. But sex is more complicated than I realized. I mean the feelings that go with it. Not that I should've waited till my wedding night or something. But maybe I should've waited till I met a girl who means something more than fun to me.

On the other hand, there are the girls that guys fool around with, and the ones they marry. And I've never met the kind you marry. And I'm young and I should be having fun, right?

.

Wish me luck tomorrow night, too,

Tony

.

.

.

March 23, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, tonight I'll be safely back in my dorm room, with no one the wiser, at least no one on the Eastern Seaboard. Nevada has my visit on record, although Mexico will soon wipe that out.

Brian and I arrived in Vegas late last night. But we were both too awake and nervous to sleep. So we played some blackjack, got married, pigged out at the smorgasbord. Oh, and we saw Wayne Newton.

Yes, we got married. That was after Wayne Newton but before the blackjack and smorgasbord. I told Brian that this was a big step we were taking, as I'd never been with a man before, and I'd always thought I'd wait till we got married.

So he said, "Then maybe we should get married."

As simple as that. Never mind that marriage is an even bigger step than sex, more permanent. I assume. Well, usually.

Even that night, I knew it was crazy, but the wine still hadn't worn off. Neither had the drinks on the plane and at the show. And a Vegas wedding would certainly be spontaneous.

There was a part of me, a little, sane, sober part of my brain that remembered _I always said I'd never get married at 18 like Mother did._ But I argued back that I'm almost 19, and this might be my one big chance for happiness. What if I didn't marry Brian and later regretted it?

So we went to a little chapel on the Strip. And then we went back to the hotel and played blackjack. And, yes, I ate too much. Then I went up to our hotel room and puked it all up, which didn't make me feel very romantic.

But Brian had stayed downstairs, drinking with men he'd met, arguing good-naturedly about iambic pentameter. When he came upstairs, I had brushed my teeth and gotten undressed. (Our trip was so much spur of the moment, that we hadn't brought any luggage, and I'd had to buy the paste and brush at the airport.) I sat nervously but I hoped provocatively in "our bed."

He stumbled into the room, fell into bed, and passed out, in everything but his shoes. I guess I'm not the only lightweight. Although to be fair, he had had more to drink than I did.

That was my wedding night. Not exactly a young girl's dream. At the time, I planned to be sweet and understanding about it. We could make love in the morning, or later in the day. Or even back in his apartment near the Yale campus. It did cross my mind that I'd have to move out of the dorms and explain to everyone, but I was sure he'd be a more pleasant roommate than Trish, or Mother.

When we woke up this morning though, we looked at each other and I think we both realized we'd made a big mistake, but not an irreparable one.

"Angela, I think you're wonderful, but I'm too young to get married."  
"Oh, Brian, I feel the same about us! I mean that you're wonderful and I'm too young."

We were so pleased that we kissed passionately. Then we both remembered I was naked, and we realized that if we consummated our union, we'd have trouble annulling it. So I got out of bed, showered, and then put on my clothes. He did the same.

And then we went for a lovely walk in the desert, trying to figure out what to do next. He said that since Spring Break had just started, he could fly to Mexico and have our marriage annulled, as that would be the quickest method. And then we could take things more slowly once he got back to the East Coast.

So that's where things stand now. I'm flying back to New York City, while he goes to Mexico City. I'll buy another outfit in NYC, so I don't come back in the clothes I left in yesterday. Even Trish would get suspicious then. (Oh, right, she's in Florida. Well, there are a few people I know on campus who might tell her.)

It's so strange to think that I'm married but still very much a virgin. I'm not even sure if I'm really in love with Brian. Maybe it was just wine, poetry, and footsies. Maybe I was having a romance with romance.

I've got to be more practical. Focus on school. This is a sign. Or maybe I just need to learn not to go to extremes. I do go overboard sometimes, don't I?

Oh, the flight is about to land!

.

Wish me luck getting my life back to normal,

Angela

.

.

.

March 23, 1969

.  
Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, I did better this time. At least Tanya didn't have any complaints. Not that there's not still a lot of room for improvement. But I think it's the kind of thing that takes practice. At least practice should be fun, and not just with Tanya if I'm lucky.

It's weird, I wish I could compare notes with you. Find out a girl's point of view. I mean, yeah, I could ask Tanya, but I'd rather ask some girl that I'm not on the make for. Then again, maybe if I saw you again, especially with your five and a half years of kissing (and more?) experience, maybe I'd be on the make for you, too.

.

Wish me luck with all this,

Tony

.

P.S. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I thought I saw that fat girl with your eyes again. I was making a fish delivery to a restaurant on 3rd Avenue, and I saw her coming out of Bloomingdale's with a shopping bag. She put her sunglasses on as I came along, so I didn't get a good look at her eyes. I think she was hungover. I really hope that wasn't you. I like to think you haven't let yourself go that much. Besides, why would you keep dying your hair brown? I mean, I like brunettes (Tanya and most of the Italian girls I know are brunette), but there was something really pretty and special about your golden hair.


	13. Summer and Fall of '69

August 15, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, Brian never returned. Yes, my husband abandoned me. No, it's not that dramatic. After he wrote to me that he got us divorced in Mexico, he said he was going to drop out of college for awhile and bum around Europe, taking stock of his life. Part of me finds that really irresponsible, and part of me envies him for being genuinely spontaneous.

Nonetheless, I'm doing something not quite that wild this weekend. I heard about a rock concert that's an hour and a half drive away. I hope it's not sold out by the time I get there. There are all sorts of rumors about really big bands playing—maybe even the Beatles!

I wanted Trish to go with me so I wouldn't have to go alone, but she said, "Why would I want to sleep with a bunch of dirty hippies?" I'm not sure if she meant sleep with, or just sleep out on the ground in our sleeping bags. I think it'll be lovely, with the stars overhead, and the music playing all around us. Obviously I'm not going to sleep with anyone, even if it does sound like there might be a "love-in" aspect to it. But I prefer to think that by "three days of peace, love, and music" they mean universal love. Even though I'm thinking of deciding on a Business major in the Fall, I'm not totally averse to the spirit of the times. I mean, I have that side to me.

Nonetheless, I'm taking along my Poli Sci homework. (Yes, I'm taking a couple summer courses.) Who knows? Maybe I'll be able to incorporate the concert as research on contemporary subcultures.

.

Peace and love and of course music,

Angela

.

.

.

August 15, 1969

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, Darlene has talked me into doing something crazy this weekend. We're going to that big rock concert in Woodstock! Pop isn't thrilled about it, but I said I couldn't get into much more trouble than I do in Brooklyn. And it is the summer. Plus, I pointed out that guys only a year or two older than I am are getting killed in the War. I'm sort of a man.

No, I haven't yet slept with Darlene, but I guess this would be a good opportunity. Things have fizzled out with Tanya, who thinks I'm too much of a hippie, even though I'm not really, just by Brooklyn standards. (And I'm not the pot-smoker. Philly is.) So I've let my hair grow out a little. Darlene thinks it looks good.

I'm wearing my rattiest jeans and T-shirt this weekend. Darlene gave me some love beads. She's wearing a peasant dress (her Sicilian grandmother's actually) and granny glasses (her Roman grandfather's actually). We should blend in OK with the love children.

I wonder what you look like these days. Sometimes I picture you like Tricia Nixon, a wholesome, conservative blonde. If so, you'd probably be pretty shocked by what I've turned into. But I bet I'd still think you're cute.

Oh, I've got to go meet Darlene! We're taking the bus as far as we can, and then hitch-hiking the rest of the way, although I haven't told Pop that part.

.

Feeling groovy,

Tony

.

.

.

August 18, 1969

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I didn't feel too comfortable at Woodstock (technically the concert was just outside the town of Bethel), although I did try to dress down for the occasion. I felt like everyone could tell that I'm an upper-class WASP, although I tried to park my '68 Chrysler convertible in a discreet spot. Also, I took one look at the rain and the mud and the line for the porta-potties, then I checked into the nearest motel. Even then, the music was so loud, I couldn't finish my paper. So I checked out the next morning and headed back to campus. I spent the rest of the weekend in the library and in my room.

I'm afraid that I just don't do wildness well. Some people (like Mother) have a gift for it, and some don't.

.

Tamely,

Angela

.

.

.

August 18, 1969

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, we never made it to Woodstock. The roads were crowded, then flooded, and then closed. So instead we checked into a motel near Poughkeepsie (the closest we got). Other than taking Darlene to bed, the wildest thing I did was get a little tattoo of a peace sign on my thigh. It's high enough up that you can't see it if I wear jeans, or even long shorts. Darlene thinks "it's right on that I'm written on."

It's weird to think it's six summers since I kissed you. I wonder if your life has been as unpredictable as mine has.

.

Keep on trucking,

Tony

.

.

.

November 15, 1969,

.

Dear Anthony,

.

I have a very embarrassing story to tell you. I know, what else is new? First of all, I have to tell you that Trish and I joined a sorority. With Vassar and Yale now going coed, she said this would give us more opportunities to meet men. And in fact, I did meet a fraternity man, Greg Dawson. He's like Robert Redford, but good-looking. He has a well-trimmed mustache like the Sundance Kid in the movie, and, yes, like my ex-husband, although Greg is otherwise very preppy.

I plucked up my courage and asked him to the big sorority ball. And he said yes! I wanted to look my best for him. I went on a crash diet and lost six pounds. I spent all day at the hairdresser's getting a bouffant. Even my acne cleared up. I bought this incredible strapless evening gown, in Scarlett O'Hara scarlet. I felt like her when I made my grand entrance at the top of the long staircase of the sorority house. Greg was waiting for me down at the bottom.

But my life isn't a romantic Hollywood movie. It's more like a slapstick farce. The high heel of my shoe caught in the low hem of my dress. I bounced all the way down the stairs! My gown stayed at the top, while I landed at the bottom in just my slip and my wrist corsage. I wasn't hurt, just my pride. Greg helped me to my feet, but then I ran back up the stairs and to my room, where I spent the rest of the evening eating fudge, too humiliated to face anyone. Trish Baldwin of course thought it was hilarious.

There's another Trish in the sorority, Trish Carlin, and she's much nicer than "my Trish." She couldn't go to the ball because she sprained her ankle a couple days ago, getting an action shot for the campus newspaper. (She wants to be a photojournalist.) Anyway, she said this is the sort of story that I'll laugh about in 15 years. God, I'll be 34 then, practically middle-aged!

For the moment, it does feel a little bit better to have "told someone." I hope you wouldn't laugh about it. I like to think you'd say something sweet. The Anthony in my fantasies would. And then he'd ask me to dance. (I mean after I put something on over my slip.)

.

May I have this dance?

Angela

.

.

.

Nov. 16, 1969,

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I may not have made it to Woodstock, but I did attend an event with half a million people. I went to the Moratorium March in Washington yesterday. Yeah, OK, part of it was the girls who don't wear bras, but I also wanted to do something about the War. I don't know if I made any difference, but it was exciting to be there.

When I got home, Pop said I seem determined to wind up in jail someday. I told him this isn't like stealing street signs. It's about making my voice heard. He thinks I should just vote when I turn 21 and stay out of trouble.

"Don't you want to make something of yourself? You think any teams are gonna want some hippie protester playing second base?"

It's pointless to argue with him. He doesn't understand. No one really does. There's a restlessness I feel sometimes, that old feeling that there's a big world out there and I only get to see a little corner of it. Even when I travel, it's not very far.

Sometimes I wish I could bum around Europe, but that takes money. I can't even save up enough for a car, and I'm 17 1/2 now. How could I afford to fly to Europe?

Other times, I think when I'm 18 I'll join the service, just to see the world. But I don't want to kill anyone, or be killed.

I don't think I ever told you about the time, about a year ago, when a boxing promoter from the Bronx got me a shot at a pro fight. I lied about my age. My opponent stared me down and I lost. I don't think of myself as a coward, but there are things I'm scared of, like spiders and deep water. And death. But I'm also scared of not taking a chance in life.

.

Restlessly,

Tony


	14. 1970 and '90

January 1, 1970

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Happy New Decade! Just think, when the '60s started, we were little 9-year-olds, and now we're adults. (Although I don't always feel like one of course.)

The latest news is I have a new aunt. My Uncle Archie, Mother's older brother who lives in their old house in Maine, got married. Unfortunately, we weren't invited to the wedding. I'm afraid Mother doesn't get along with her sister-in-law Laura. Things really came to a head when Mother wore a bright red dress to Laura's engagement party. Mother is one of those redheads who can wear red. Actually, she looks good in any color. I envy her. And I guess Laura envies her, too. It didn't help that the dress was very low-cut.

My other uncle, Cornelius, is Mother's younger brother, and he's still a bachelor. He's an officer and is stationed in Vietnam. We don't see him very often, and now we probably won't see Uncle Archie, unless he and Mother make up.

My Aunt Barbara says the wedding was very nice, a Christmas wedding. My poor cousin, Christy, who's shyer than ever at 12, had to be a bridesmaid and she hated it. Nanna likes Laura by the way, but then they both think Mother is vulgar. (Well, I do, too, sometimes, but I know that she's a good person, deep down.)

.

Have good '70s,

Angela

.

.

.

January 15, 1970

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

I've been working at the Rossinis' fish market more, trying to do an hour every morning before school. I'm saving what money I can, for wherever life takes me after high school. (Just five more months at Pitkin High.)

I wish I could save enough for college. Every day I see the guys waiting at the bus stop, on their way to Brooklyn College. Some of them even have those cool corduroy jackets with the leather elbow patches. I know my buddies would laugh at me if I wore one of those, but I wouldn't care. I'd look cool and I'd be learning things that no one around here knows.

Yeah, I still want to play pro ball. Who knows, maybe the Mets will be recruiting in Brooklyn this spring. Hey, it could happen. Grandpa would say I just have to believe. Even the minors would be good, my ticket out of here. I love Brooklyn, but I want to try other places, too.

.

Still restless,

Tony

.

.

.

April 23, 1970

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Less than a month till I turn 20, and hopefully leave my teenage foolishness behind. Why am I so stupid about men? Or at least unlucky?

I was seeing a handsome, hard-working Yale man named Mitchell. We're both Business majors and we have a lot in common, although I will admit I wish he was a little less perfect. (He has no embarrassing personal stories, and I can't imagine telling him any of the many I have.)

We both wanted to get into the Honors exchange program and spend our junior year in France. My French is pretty good, and I want to travel. Also, it would be so romantic to go to Paris with my boyfriend. But I had the feeling that, hard-working or not, he wasn't going to make it. And I didn't want to lose him, so I purposely blew the exam. Then he dumped me for Trish Carlin, who did get into the program! I know, it was bad enough the other Trish treating my crush Andrew Holmby III like chewing gum, but this time it was all my own fault.

Anyway, now she's wearing Mitchell's fraternity pin. I still like Trish C., so I won't hold it against her, although Trish B. says that if it had happened to her, she'd steal Mitchell back as soon as Trish C. leaves for France. I wouldn't do that, even if I were able to compete with anyone.

.

Facing defeat on many fronts,

Angela

.

.

.

May 20, 1970

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Well, I've been an adult for almost a month, and I still don't know what my future will be. I guess I'll just finish high school and keep working for the Rossinis'. And I'll keep playing baseball because it's the one thing I'm good at. Maybe I'll make it onto a team in the next couple years, unless I get drafted into the War. I don't think I could burn my draft card. Pop would disapprove, and anyway I would feel like it'd be Fate telling me what's next.

For now I'm just drifting, having fun in my last few weeks at Pitkin High.

.

Aimlessly,

Tony

.

.

.

August 12, 1970

.

Dear Anthony,

.

Well, I'm trying to get my life straightened out. Not that it's been a complete mess, but I've made so many mistakes. So I've started therapy, in New York City, once a week. I don't know if I'll stay with it. After two sessions, I'm already thinking of quitting. On the other hand, I could see doing it for years, although maybe just off and on.

Even though I can open up to you, knowing that these words aren't even for your eyes only, it's very hard for me to talk about my feelings. And I'm so insecure and unsure. But I can't keep being so stupid about men, or eating chocolate when I'm unhappy.

I'm not sure if this is a sign of progress or if it means I still have a long way to go, but I flirted a little on the subway. I was returning from my session and heading towards the commuter train back to Connecticut. (I'm staying with Mother this summer, not taking classes or even working, having decided that I want to work on myself most of all.)

Anyway, there was this cute boy or man, I'm not sure which he was, sitting across from me. I think he was even younger than I am. (Not jailbait I hope!) Anyway, he was probably about 18, with big warm brown eyes, and a big warm wide smile. His hair was a little long and wavy but neat. And he had cute sideburns that made me think of Jane Austen heroes. And, well, he reminded me of you, although I doubt you look that young for your age.

I try not to flirt with strange men (or boys) of course, but what happened was someone had their radio on and it was playing "Close to You." I couldn't help it, I made a face and said, "Ugh! I loathe this song!" The man with the radio didn't hear me, but the cute man did and he smiled that big smile. His voice was deeper than I expected when he said, "Yeah, me, too."

But that was all that happened. That probably doesn't even count as flirting, except for someone as shy as I. He got off at the next stop. I was tempted to follow, and only partially to get away from the Carpenters. But I'm unadventurous Angela, so of course I just continued towards home.

I'm not sure if I'll tell my therapist this story. But I've come to a conclusion. I need to stop writing to you. It's been too much of a crutch. I need to talk to other people, real people who can respond, disagree, comfort, whatever they feel like. You're just a ghost I've wasted paper on for seven years.

No, I don't regret it. But it's time to move on.

.

Au revoir,

Angela

.

.

.

August 12, 1970

.

Dear Ingrid,

.

Even though you've never received these letters, I feel I should let you know this is my last one. A few things have happened and my life is changing. It's time for me to grow up, give up on the dream of you, face reality. Especially since reality ain't so bad these days.

Number one, I got recruited by a pro team! OK, it's the minors (class D since I'm a rookie), and I won't even get to play much this late in the season (I'm a replacement), but it's a start. I'm going to be travelling, and I can't see writing you unsent letters from all over the country.

Number two, I've got a serious girlfriend. It's Marie Milano. She's 17 now and so beautiful! Yeah, I've grown up with her and we've even gone out a couple times over the years, but I've finally realized how great she is. Not just her looks (sweet brown eyes, lush brown hair, a petite but curvy figure, a smile that lights up the room), but her personality. Smart, a little sarcastic, but big-hearted. We're going steady, even if we are the only couple at Lovers' Lane without a car. (I'm going to save up for a van, once the team's owner starts paying me.) And I'd feel funny writing to another girl when I'm so crazy about Marie.

Number three, I thought I saw you on the subway. Or maybe it was that fat brunette I think I've run into a couple times. Only she wasn't as fat as before, and her acne had cleared up. She still had the glasses. And even though she's not my usual type, I couldn't help looking at her. She's a girl. And there was something about her. So I smiled at her when some jerk's radio started blasting "Close to You" and she said she "loathed" the song, especially since I can't stand the Carpenters either. I couldn't help it, I said, "Yeah, me, too."

And maybe it was just one of those moments that make me love living in New York, that moment of connection with a stranger. But because I'm an 18-year-old guy, I can't have an innocent connection with any girl. So I got off at the next stop. Who knows, maybe if I'd stayed on, we'd have been married by the time we hit Times Square.

Whoever and whatever and wherever you are, I hope your life is good. Mine is better than I thought.

.

Thanks for everything,

Tony

.

.

.

Mona folded up the last letter with a smile and then a sigh. Tony and Angela would be home from Italy tomorrow, and she'd have to return this correspondence to the hiding places. This had been a golden opportunity to snoop around, with them and little Billy out of the house. (Mona's extension of Jonathan's curfew to 2 a.m. was also a big help.)

She hadn't expected to hit such paydirt, but, like everything else involving her daughter and "housekeeper-in-law," it was both titillating and frustrating. So many near misses! It did, however, confirm her often sorely tested theory that those two were fated to be together, even if it was a blind, bumpy journey at times.

She sorted the letters back to their two piles in chronological order. She retied the emerald green ribbon around Angela's pile, and slid Tony's back into the manila envelope.

But when she carried the two stacks back to the main house and upstairs, she hesitated before she went into Angela's bedroom. She slipped the _"Anthony Morton Micelli, Pitkin High Class of 1970"_ diploma envelope into the bottom of the box of Angela's "fat clothes." Then she carried the ribbon-tied stack into Tony's room, where she set the letters at the bottom of the drawer where he kept his marriage license (Atlantic City, June 1971) and Sam's birth certificate (Brooklyn, August 1972).

She made it back down to the living room by the time Jonathan came home.

"Grandma, what have you been up to?"

"Me? I've just been reading quietly all evening." She waved at the magazines on the coffee table.

Her grandson looked suspicious but as if he didn't really want to know. They said goodnight, and she headed back to her place, humming "Please Mr. Postman."

THE END


End file.
